


Formalities

by peevee



Series: How To Get What You Want and Want What You Have [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-02
Updated: 2012-03-02
Packaged: 2017-11-01 00:27:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peevee/pseuds/peevee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Formalities are observed, Mycroft swears bilingually, and there is John/Cake.</p><p><i>“God, you are </i>infuriating<i>. Bed? Sofa? Nearest available flat surface? I’d like to make good on at least one of the ideas you put forward yesterday.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Formalities

**Author's Note:**

> This was intended as a short, porny sequel to [Flirting Is In The Eye Of The Beholder](http://archiveofourown.org/works/344453) and, uh, it turned into a _really long_ porny sequel. With food. Oops.

In the car, John has a small, contained panic attack.

He’s pretty surprised it’s only happening now really, he was half-expecting the reality of the situation to sink in at some point during the day but mostly had just felt anticipatory. Even when getting dressed he’d had surprisingly little problems choosing what to put on after reviewing his wardrobe for about five seconds and realising that nothing he owns will ever make him look even a tenth as good as Mycroft in a waistcoat. He’d settled on a crisp white shirt, dark jeans and tan brogues, rejected the cardigan for being too… _cardigany_ , and unearthed a smart looking navy jacket. He looks, he thinks, rather good actually. 

It’s only now in the sleek black car with the faceless driver that he is suddenly aware of how bizarre this is. He’s on his way to Mycroft Holmes’ house with the explicit purpose of having lots of hot, messy sex, and he hasn’t actually _seen_ Mycroft in about six months. Has only spoken to him about anything other than Sherlock once, last night, when Mycroft was busy telling him how he’d like to take John’s cock in his mouth and suck him dry.

The car comes smoothly to a halt, and John takes the opportunity to suck in a steadying gulp of cool night air as he climbs out. The driver shows him to the door, then melts back into the night, he and the car disappearing to wherever they came from. 

How do you greet someone who you’ve never so much as kissed, but know what they sound like when they come? Will a hug be too forward? Too casual? Does Mycroft hug? He can’t really imagine Mycroft hugging anyone, it’s about as likely as him adopting a litter of puppies, or disabling all his cameras and leaving Sherlock to his own devices. He’s still quietly panicking when he walks up to Mycroft’s front door and raps the enormous brass knocker, stepping anxiously from foot to foot.

Mycroft, predictably, sweeps all his concerns to one side by opening the door, saying “ _John,_ ” like he’s been waiting all his life for John to be on his doorstep looking awkward, and pulling him into a bone-melting, knee-weakening kiss. Not a hug, then.

He is an _exceptional_ kisser. With the portion of his brain that isn’t already helplessly aroused and gibbering uselessly, John thinks he really shouldn’t be surprised; Mycroft Holmes is exceptional at everything. Belatedly, he puts his not inconsiderable experience to use in trying to wrest back some kind of control, and is gratified when Mycroft clutches at his waist, makes a small noise and angles their hips together. 

John is just on the cusp of getting very hard, very quickly when Mycroft pulls back glassy-eyed and licks his lips, hands still resting on John’s waist.

“Dinner, then?”

“Gnf,” John manages.

“Come on in.” He turns, smoothing down his shirt and holds the door open so John can step inside. John looks around furtively, hoping that nobody witnessed them snogging like bloody teenagers on the doorstep, and follows him in, taking in Mycroft’s long legs as he trails behind through the house into the vast kitchen.

Mycroft’s home is exactly how John might have imagined it: extravagant, luxurious, _enormous_. The kitchen alone could probably hold most of the rooms in 221B, but despite its size manages to be welcoming, full of a delicious savoury smell John can’t identify. On one wall there are French windows thrown open onto a large patio to let in cool summer air, and on another an elderly looking Aga pumps out heat. The result is a pleasant, fresh warmth.

Mycroft looks both strangely at home and completely incongruous bent over the stove and dipping a spoon into a cooling pot of something. He manoeuvres the heavy looking pot back onto the gas flame, and John takes the opportunity to drink in the sight of his well-formed arse in sleek black trousers.

“Hungry?”

John guiltily flicks his eyes upwards, to where Mycroft has turned his head and is directing a shark-like expression at him. _Caught._ He feels a slow grin creep over his face.

“Ravenous,” he replies.

“Mm. It’s almost ready. I hope you like blue cheese,” He gestures to a frankly enormous lump of green-veined Roquefort on the chopping board, “It’s best in the summer months.” John moves forward and crumbles off a corner, licking it messily from his fingers.

“Delicious.” He leans back onto the wooden breakfast bar and studies Mycroft’s practiced movements, “I knew you’d be a good cook.”

“Oh?”

“You’re a sensualist. It’s the most obvious thing about you; the beautiful suits, the single malt whiskey, Sherlock’s ridiculous comments about being on a _diet_ ,” His nose wrinkles. “I _deduced_ that you would be a good cook,” he finishes with a flourish, smiling.

Mycroft looks pleased – his eyebrow is raised slightly and his mouth softens, nothing so easy to interpret as a _smile_ for a Holmes, oh no – and he makes a noise of assent, moving the now bubbling pot off the heat.

“There may be few things worse than a meal that values so-called health benefits over quality ingredients.” He says ‘health’ as if the very word leaves a bad taste in his mouth, and begins to crumble a generous amount of sticky cheese into the pot with deft hands.

John comes up behind him and peers around his arm.

“Mm, risotto.”

“Stir for me, will you?”

He takes up the spoon and stirs slowly, methodically, feeling his mouth water as the cheese melts luxuriously into creamy, starchy rice. It’s flecked through with black pepper and tiny chunks of translucent onion, and there’s a half empty bottle of golden wine on the countertop that helps to explain the rich, heady aroma. When he’s finished with the cheese, Mycroft commandeers the spoon again, gives the rice one last quick stir, and picks the whole thing off the hob.

Although he almost certainly has some sort of formal dining room somewhere, there is a small wooden table set for two next to the French windows, and it’s on this that he deposits the steaming pot. There is already a bowl of glistening, oiled salad and a floured loaf on the table, and Mycroft brings over the half-finished golden wine and two crystal goblets.

“Goblets,” says John, “of course you have goblets.”

Mycroft just rolls his eyes and pours them each a generous glug. In typical Mycroft style he serves up the risotto with finesse, managing somehow not to slop it all over the table or himself, as John would have done. They sit, and between John’s second helping of (wonderful, rich and creamy) risotto and Mycroft’s third glass of (delicious, fragrant) wine they ease into the kind of comfortable, sharp conversation that John hasn’t had in months. Mycroft is leaning back in his chair gesturing freely with his wine glass, and John sits forward, one hand supporting his chin, the other picking stray grains of rice from the plate with his fork.

He learns that Mycroft isn’t fond of cricket but is an avid Gunners fan (John snorts, Mycroft pretends to be offended), truly hates to talk politics and used to own a motorbike (Mycroft’s socked foot slides over John’s under the table).

John briefly entertains some lovely images of a young Mycroft in jeans and a leather jacket. Mycroft smirks knowingly at him while he does it, but doesn’t confirm or deny what must be written all over John’s face.

He teaches Mycroft some Pashto swear words, witnesses him honest-to-god giggle (and look mortified about it seconds later) when he explains that “Sta pa mor khar wachom” literally translates as “I will put a donkey on your mother”.

Then there’s some sticky Swedish chocolate cake -- Kladdkaka, Mycroft writes it on an old reciept for him –- with fluffy cream, which makes John’s eyelids flutter in delighted pleasure, and Mycroft is watching him dark-eyed over the edge of his wine glass.

John is furtively licking the remains of the (delicious, gooey, ridiculously messy) cake from his fingers when Mycroft suddenly stands and moves round the table to loom over him.

“Um,” says John, eloquently.

Mycroft takes hold of his hand and, still gazing at him stoically, draws the second and middle fingers into his mouth. His tongue licks delicately, stroking over the distal phalange, lapping at the webbing at his knuckle and sucking softly. John can’t do much more than stare at the sight of his fingers sliding wetly between flushed lips for a long minute. Mycroft lets the fingers slide from his mouth before placing a hand on each of John’s shoulders, swinging a long leg over his knees and settling with a contented little sigh in his lap. John eventually regains the use of speech,

“Fuck, you’re heavy. C’mere.”

He slides his hands down to take hold of Mycroft’s arse and drags him abruptly flush to his hips. Mycroft’s hands come up to fist in his hair and then they’re kissing and – _oh_ \- it’s hot, wet and chocolaty. Mycroft’s mouth opens under his and their tongues slide together slowly, making John shiver all the way down to his toes and the hair prickle on his neck; he suddenly feels flushed, needy.

They stay like that; kissing long and slow in the chair for what seems like hours, time stretching slow and syrupy with wine and hazy pleasure. John’s jaw aches deliciously, and he shudders from the feeling of Mycroft’s long fingers drawing little circles in the short hair at the base of his neck. Eventually he starts to lose feeling in his toes and shifts, lifting Mycroft off him slightly, holding him at his waist. Mycroft makes a small noise at that and gazes at him with huge pupils, breathless.

“You are deceptively strong, it's ridiculously arousing.”

“Want me to hoist you over my shoulder and carry you to bed, darling?” John quips with a grin, which sparks a short, sudden scuffle that John loses decisively, Mycroft pinning his arms behind the chair with both hands. John doesn’t really resist too much. The position means that Mycroft’s face hovers only inches away from his, and John takes the opportunity to lick him on the nose, squirming upwards as he does so, leaving Mycroft with a bizarre expression of confused arousal.

“I’ll bet you were the type to slobber over a person’s hand, should they cover your mouth,” Mycroft sniffs prissily, removing one of his hands to wipe his wet nose and shoving his hips down against John’s in retaliation. John groans, leans up for a kiss just as Mycroft moves his head out of reach.

“God, you are _infuriating_. Bed? Sofa? Nearest available flat surface? I’d like to make good on at least one of the ideas you put forward yesterday.”

“Mm,” Mycroft licks gently into his mouth, “I would like it very much,” he says in between lazy kisses, “if you were to fuck me.”

Somehow there’s an enormous difference between reading Mycroft’s filthy texts, or hearing his voice purring over a phone line, and actually watching his sensually bowed mouth form the words ‘ _fuck me_ ’. John practically _feels_ his eyes roll back in his head a little at that.

“Right. Yes,” his fingers tighten on Mycroft’s hips, “Good. Now?”

“Now,” Mycroft confirms, rising from John’s lap fluidly and swiftly leading him out of the kitchen and through a small maze of corridors and stairs. He stops abruptly outside one of the doors and spins, pinning John with force against the wall and kissing him with intent. John gasps incoherently into his mouth.

“Too many clothes. Not enough bed. C’mon.” He wriggles away and pulls him through the door, and then Mycroft is pushing him back down onto the bed and unbuttoning his own cuffs, managing to lean in for quick, breathless kisses as they try to take their clothes off as quickly as possible.

John allows himself a quick moment to admire the lithe, naked form in front of him before Mycroft’s on him, pinning his wrists to the bed above his head and pressing them together, nose to toe. He drags his foot up the outside of Mycroft’s ankle and kisses him on the ear, moving greedy hands down to cup his arse and smooth over the soft skin at the base of his spine.

“God,”

“Let me--hold on,” Mycroft separates himself with what seems like great reluctance to pull a tube of lubricant from the drawer next to the bed. He presses it into John’s palm and swings one leg over his waist, sitting upright, “Now. I want--”

“Yeah, Christ, alright,”

John slicks both hands hurriedly, tosses the tube aside, and insinuates two fingers down past the crease of Mycroft’s thigh to draw them over the soft skin of his perineum, circling slippery over his opening. Mycroft spreads his legs further, intense gaze taking in John’s every movement. His cock is bobbing against his belly, already glistening at the tip and twitching minutely at every pass of John’s fingers. John’s teeth ache at the sight of it.

“What do you need?” he murmurs, pressing the tips of his fingers gently inwards, rubbing and spreading lube around.

“Not much, just—yes, _ah_ , yes like that,” he says, breathless. John hooks his fingers shallowly in and out, feeling the clench and clutch of muscles as they begin to open, accepting. At the same time, he draws his other hand down and deftly slicks his cock. 

“Oh, that’s it,” Mycroft grits out after only a minute or so, rolling his hips down slowly, “enough, that’s enough, just - ”

“Are you sure?” John slips his fingers a little further in, spreading them slightly.

Mycroft just gives him a _look_ , leans to pin John’s hips and position his cock and in one achingly slow movement, sinks down to the hilt.

“ _Fuck_ , oh fuck, that’s-”

“Mmm.” Mycroft looks totally blissful, pupils dilated so far his eyes appear black and a very fetching flush painting his cheekbones. He’s biting down hard on his bottom lip as he angles his hips slightly and John slips further in, both of them making breathy, cut off noises.

“God, you’re so tight. Just – don’t move for a second. Need a moment-” John pants messily, fingers gripping Mycroft’s hips hard enough to hurt. He’s close already, can feel that it wouldn’t take much and the sight of Mycroft above him _really_ isn’t helping.

Mycroft’s eyes are roaming hungrily over his face, meeting John’s then flicking down to his mouth. He circles his hips minutely and his eyelids flicker in pleasure,

“Perfect, ah,”

John mirrors the movement, not pulling out, just pushing his hips up and using his grip on Mycroft’s to pull him down, feeling the sweet slick slide of the head of his cock pressing up inside him.

“Touch me,” Mycroft demands with a quick, hot push of his hips.

John’s fingers trace up the underside of his cock and he can’t contain a helpless groan.

“God, you’re dripping,” He swirls his fingers around, “Is it- are you always this wet? Oh my god, that’s-” _the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen._ He wraps his hand tightly around the base, staring intently as more fluid wells at the tip and drips down towards his hand. “ _Fuck_.”

“Yes, I never did have much use for lubricant as a teenager,” Mycroft says breathily, “that is, until I discovered what else it could be used for.” He pairs this with a very deliberate slide up off John’s cock and jerks back down forcefully with a pant.

“Christ, Mycroft, stop for a second or I’ll come,” John gasps.

Mycroft stills, mercifully, and John tries to concentrate on the slow, wet slide of his hand over Mycroft’s cock. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt this turned on from jerking someone off, but there’s something ridiculously hot about how messily wet it all is. He wants to taste it, suck it down, he has to stop thinking about it otherwise he’s going to come and he wants _more_.

Mycroft shifts again, this time sliding himself up slightly until he’s hovering above John’s thighs. He places his hands on John’s hips and pulls them upwards in invitation, hissing out a “Yes,” as John slides over his prostate. John plants his feet and begins a slow, rhythmic motion of his hips, fucking Mycroft shallowly with the head of his cock, feeling him shudder with the effort of holding himself up every time John pushes up into him.

“Oh god, I’m going to come,” John grits out, “just--yeah like that, like that,”

He chases his orgasm with long pushes upwards, freeing his hands from the sheets and grabbing Mycroft, pulling him back down onto his cock to grind up into him.

“Yes, come on, come inside me, John,” Mycroft breathes. He sleeks his hands greedily along John’s sides, brushing thumbs over his sensitive nipples and then John is coming, jerking upwards into Mycroft’s body, orgasm punching through him as he cries out something that might be “Fu-oh-My- _God,_ ” shuddering with pleasure and gripping Mycroft's hips hard and bruising.

John takes a minute or so to gather his wits, pulling out gently and drawing Mycroft down for a long, hot kiss. He then bodily flips them both over, spilling a surprised looking Mycroft onto his back before diving down to take his –god- _dripping_ cock into his mouth, moaning around it as Mycroft jerks suddenly upwards, choking on a gasp. He tastes delicious, salt sweet, and smells even better, heady and dark. John inhales greedily, sucking hard and swirling his tongue, suddenly desperate to have Mycroft losing control beneath him.

He pushes Mycroft’s hips down to still them, pulling one long leg over his shoulder and slips two fingers straight into his opening.

“I’m going to come right into your pretty little mouth,” Mycroft says. “And in a short while I’m going to hold you down, spread you open and fuck you senseless.”

John moans around his cock, feeling pre-come spilling onto his tongue. He pushes his fingers further in, feeling his own come slicking the way and drags the pads of his fingers over Mycroft’s prostate. Mycroft comes almost silently down his throat, clenching around John’s fingers, thighs shaking. John drinks everything down covetously, sucking gently until Mycroft is pulling him up, lapping into his mouth and arching sweetly against him.

They lie together, panting but otherwise in silence for a long minute.

“Jesus _Christ_ …” manages John.

Mycroft opens his mouth.

“Don’t make the joke. It’s beneath you,” John interrupts before he can get any further.

“I was merely going to express agreement with your…sentiment.”

“Well. Good. Mm.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft stretches out on his back looking like a very large, very satisfied cat. John rubs a hand over his belly, scratches slightly. Mycroft raises an eyebrow.

“Are you _petting_ me?”

“You like it,” John accuses. He rubs some more.

“Nobody pets me.”

“I’m petting you,” John points out.

Mycroft evidently gives up on this fruitless line of conversation and leans slightly into the touch. John takes the opportunity, stroking lazily over his stomach, the tops of his thighs. Eventually Mycroft gives his head a shake and sits up, swinging his legs off the bed and reaching up for his silk dressing gown.

“Tea?” he offers.

“God, marry me.” John moans.

He returns shortly with two steaming cups and places them on the bedside table, leaning down for a kiss before settling back onto the bed with his cup and passing one to John.

“You’re going to make me develop a Pavlovian response to tea, you know,” John sighs in contented bliss, sipping at it. “Mornings at 221B will be awkward.”

“That _was_ my cunning plan,” says Mycroft dryly, “to ply you with tea and sex so that you’ll think of me naked in front of my brother.”

“He’d know.”

“Precisely.”

“You two are going to kill me, aren’t you? _You_ are going to dissolve my capacity for cognitive processing with amazing sex, then Sherlock will deduce it and probably try to shoot me so he doesn’t have to think about it any more.” He sighs dramatically, “That is what the future holds for me, I can see it.”

Mycroft eyes him. “Psychic now, are we?”

“Yep. Though as long as I get more of the sex part, it might just be worth it.”

“I am gratified to hear it.” Mycroft looks equal parts smug, amused and exasperated, as if trying to parse what it is he’s gotten himself into. John pats him on the thigh reassuringly,

“You’re smart enough to evade Sherlock, after he’s killed me and moved on to you.”

“I am inwardly rejoicing.”

“Our only hope is to have enough sex that when Sherlock deduces me he’ll give himself some sort of stroke and be unable to function.” He gazes at Mycroft beseechingly.

“I see.” Mycroft definitely looks amused despite himself now. “Well then,” he says, removing the teacup from John’s hands and flipping him onto his stomach easily, “let’s save some lives, shall we?”

John, brain function abandoned, doesn’t reply.

**Author's Note:**

> Here is a recipe for [Kladdkaka](http://allrecipes.com/recipe/swedish-sticky-chocolate-cake-kladdkaka/), which is basically the greatest cake known to mankind. It's pretty much a brownie crossed with chocolate pudding. Best. Thing. Ever.
> 
> If anyone would like the recipe for the risotto, it's one of my own inventions. Just comment down below and i'll post the recipe up! :)


End file.
